Farewell India

It was more economically viable for me to take a train across the length of India to fly from Kolkata to Thailand, than to fly directly from Delhi, which was fine by me; I much prefer Kolkata.

I bid farewell to the group, planning to meet Daan in Bangkok and boarded my 35 hour train after a short tour of the Haridwar Ghats. There was a point in my life when seven hours of any form of travel was excruciating, but after Australia and this trip, anything less than twelve hours registers no dread. I actually hoped the train would take longer than the 32 hour scheduled; it was to arrive at 2AM, four hour delay would put me in Kolkata at sunrise. As common with the unreliable Indian train system, I got my wish.

Most of the hotels on Shudder street were booked out with my arrival, but a room opened up at the 10 o'clock checkout. I had no real plans to see anything. I only needed to spend less that 500 rupees and eat some Kolkata egg rolls. This was not too hard: most egg rolls will cost around 20 rupees. I managed to eat three, one double egg, double chicken, one with paneer and chicken, and one on classic egg roll. Strange that with the delectable quantities of Bengali food around me, right at its delicious source, I chose to eat the most common of street food for my last meals in India.

In my hotel I met a man Julien who had the same flight, so we shared a taxi to the airport and boarded my first flight since my arrival in Beijing.

Though Nepal and India were both markably different, they were similar enough that I needed a complete change. I'd been in an Hindu society for nearly four months and I did not even know what to expect once I landed in Thailand. I was sad to be leaving, but also relieved. India was tough, though there hasn't been an easy country. Even the simple lifestyle of trekking in Nepal involved intense physical work, but India really tested a person emotionally. Indians are quick to perceive the weaknesses and strengths of people and they use this intuition to challenge. I learned to hate a persons actions, even if I liked the person. I'd had a great time with those who'd ripped me off. The easiest way to keep many Indians from bothering you is to make a joke. We'd developed a method of defusing beggars by begging from them first; you quickly learn to identify them.

I'd learned to embrace enough of the culture as I could. I ate with my right hand; it is amazing how much more sense Indian food made when eating it properly. The tastiest ratios of sauce to rice was the point where it became just right for picking up. I also used my left hand for...I stopped buying toilet paper. I tried paan, smoked beedies, tried every sweet I could. India is a hard country to crack, but there were ways to have simple connections, mostly chai and beedies.

I was befuddled by the eccentricities of the people. How holy temples show explicit images of many uncommon sex practices, yet husbands and wives may never see each other naked. People will shower with their clothes on, yet not think twice of defecating right on the sidewalk with others around. Being able to have instant love for a person, complete devotion to help, yet at the same time, able to lie with a straight face about anything. It was a land where begging isn't desperation, it's a profession that people train to do. Dirt floor homes will be immaculate while the streets are trashed. Discrimination is so open it is not worth thought.

It is easy to understand why people either love or hate India; it is a polarizing place: it's a polar place. I can't decide where I fall. I liked India quite a bit, but I wouldn't say I loved it. There were moments when I wanted to just leave, but I wouldn't say I hated it. It did change me somehow, and maybe not in a good way. At first I was so shocked by human suffering, but now, it doesn't really touch me anymore. I used to openly talk to anyone who seemed friendly, but in India I learned to close myself in. It is such an oppressive place in so many ways, but it makes you stronger. I've heard many say they hated India and would never want to go back, but nobody has ever wished they'd never gone.

A Tool of Love

Yoga, meditation, and spiritual enlightenment are the main activities in Rishikesh, though there is the pothead and backpacker subculture who could not care less in their haze, merely enjoying being stoned in a pretty place. I didn't commit myself to an ashram but I spent a few days at one offering free classes.

I was privy through a glass door of a dancing meditation group. Swarms, eyes closed, float around the room, flailing arms to shanti music. They looked silly, but most seemed to feel something. On the outside, we all laughed, but I was intrigued enough to want to try it the next day. Sadly, they didn't offer it in the following afternoons.

We all did want to give group meditation a chance, especially Daan, “I want to learn how!” he said on numerous occasions.

Nam and I, the only two who engage in any form of intentional meditation, didn't know how to explain that you just do it. I never confine meditation to sitting in a half lotus with eyes closed, humming “om”. I meditate through cooking or hiking; meditation is a state, not an activity. Either way, we joined in a group, sat cross legged and surrendered to the energy, some what. Mark sat and photographed those with closed eyes. Daan and Maartje drifted in and out with various levels of seriousness. Nam was lost in it, singing to the peaceful songs she somehow knew. As you can guess from my journalism, I couldn't maintain the state for the whole time. A woman was crying, raising her hands the the heavens as the music consumed her. Some sat in each others' arms stroking hair and arms. Most sat cross-legged, eyes closed in concentration. It was easy to find the humor from the room, so many people singing, clapping, playing instruments with an excessive level of seriousness. Despite this though, when I did settle down, close my eyes and surrendered to it, I did feel something and I did reach a meditative state. The room had so much energy, the silly songs growing higher and higher to a climax. I found it easy to get lost in it. After a point, it all stopped; it was time for the guru to speak.

I noticed him enter during one of my more lucid states. He quietly entered, a white figure in all ways—robes, hair, beard, presence, all but his Indian brown skin—and sat in the front and merely closed his eyes without a word. Some started to stand at his entrance, but with a simple wave of his hand, he instructed them to remain seated and ignore him.

Finally in the silent void left by the abrupt cessation of the music, he opened his eyes slowly and began to speak in Hindi, a young woman translated in only a slightly less peaceful voice.

He explained how the goal of life is to purge the heart of all negative thoughts, all anger, all sadness, and fill it with love. Upon reaching this point, we can then love even those who hate us. Our love will become like the rays of sun, radiating indiscriminately onto all.

When this happens, we will all become tools of love, great big tools with only positivity. Once we all accept that the love has made us all tools, we can help spread the love so everyone can have the chance to become a tool. And this all starts by embracing the theories of the biggest tool of all, the guru.

He spoke with a half-smiled smugness, hanging on his every word, loving his every word. He loved the captive power he had over the audience. He loved his importance. He was so filled with self-love, he truly was a giant tool.

His sermon sounded good and well meaning, but it stated that negative emotions are terrible things that need to be pushed out, not embraced and controlled. If a person loses their ability to accept and love the negativity in their own heart, how can they love and accept it in another person. His whole theory ignores the importance and need for the dark side of the human spirit. How can love be positive without it having a polar nature with hate? The love would have no meaning. Then we're all smiling zombies. He was right about one thing though, if we all have only pure love in our hearts, we would become a race of tool.

The Sober Psychedelic Experience at the Maharishi Ashram

In 1968, The Beatles, their partners, and Faye Dunaway, made a famous trip to study transcendental meditation with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. George Harrison had been dabbling in eastern Thought and religious practices for years and he encouraged the other three open-minded Beatles to join him. They all stayed for a few months, save Ringo who, sick of bringing in his own food and not interested much in mediation, left after a couple weeks. During their stay, they wrote most of the White Album and expanded their consciousnesses. Eventually the rest left after an alleged molestation of a female tenant by the Maharishi and learning of the Maharishi's profit driven business practices.

With a few years, the Maharishi moved his Ashram to the United States where he gained further notoriety, starting a controversial religious community someplace in rural Iowa. His Rishikesh ashram is now in disreapair, but I wasn't sure of the state when I made a plan to visit.

I was considering a visit before my arrival in Rishikesh, but my plan didn't reach fruition until I bumped into my friend Himalaya. Funded by my last trek, Himalay embarked on nearly the same tour as mine, combining travel with networking for his company. I bumped into him a few times on my trip, but we'd not really traveled together. In Varanasi, he was randomly chilling out at my Guest house restaurant a few minutes before my train to Agra; he'd been in town for the same amount of time as me. We later saw each other again at the Bhang Shop in Jaisalmer and made plans to meet in Amritasar at the Golden Temple. I traveled too fast to see him there, but he arrived in Rishikesh, sharing an autorickshaw with my friends

He had already walked to the Beatles Ashram, as it was popularly called, the day earlier, but the groundskeeper, who had no authority to do so was charging fifty rupees per head to enter. Apparently a backway existed, through an inconspicuous trail through the jungle.

The six of us got direction from a 40-year old British hippie who had snuck in before. “You have to go!” he said as we left in spacey British accent fueled by excessive drug use, “The Beatles were there man!”

We walked in the unexpected heat of the first sunny day in weeks. All of us stripping down from the morning chill, out coats, jackets, thermals, dangling from every chunk strap free in our stuffed day packs. Himalay asked every sardu, lounging stoned in their crude dwellings in the jungle, how to get to “Beatle Ashram”. After nearly a month total of hearing him speak only Nepali and English, I noticed the slight differences in the cadence and words of Hindi. The sardus all seemed to have different answers as to the best route, but it was clear that it lied to the right, through the dense forest. Finally, we settled on a trail that led us to the spooky grounds.

The buildings were overgrown with vines, trees, and other flora. The toilets were smashed. Beer bottles from parties and graffiti were everywhere. It was amazing how quickly a human endeavor Could be degraded by the elements in less than 40 short years. Despite the disrepair, the grounds still had a power, the fading of lost human presence that amplified the unwelcoming air of the place.

There were littered with compounds of dark basement cells, most likely meditation rooms. The sunnier upper floors were dedicated to the also tight, institutional lodgings. We passed through a trashed yoga hall and fought our way through the bush into the main buildings, two multi-floored dormitories with strange, white, egg-shaped structures on the room. We sat in the sun under the eggs and soaked in the feeling . Each egg had a ladder on the outside o, leading to an open hole on the top. The top third of the eggs were a small echo compartment, ideal for “Om shanti” chanting. Daan, Mark, Himaly and I crawled in and sang Beatles songs in the surreal acoustics. The chambers were cool and pleasant in the midday sun, The Beatles tunes helping us connect with the lost energy of the powerful creative presence that composed one of the greatest albums of all time. We descended back to the roof and lounged with Beatles classics. The energy of the place stirred in us an odd mood, best captured by a short video by Nam. She panned around, showing Maartje sunbathing, Daan and Mark composing photos with the egg, Himalay starring out over the trees at the holy Ganga, smoking a beedie, and me, shaking a strange orb on a spring, atop a column, as if putting my whole energy inside, all to the distant sound of “Here Comes the Sun.” Without realizing it, we were celebrating the first day of spring. An outsider seeing the video would question our sobriety, but the energy of the place put us all in a strange, semi-psychadelic mood. While reenacting our favorite Beatles posters for photographs, the groundskeeper found us and asked us politely to leave the restricted area. We all came down and quietly left the way we came, avoiding the inevitable fee.

The Yoga Capital of the World

The yoga capital of the world was slotted to be my longest stay in India. Laziness, lack of space, lack of energy, and other excuses had kept me from my typical yoga practice on the road. Also, having never taken a yoga course in my life, only learning from books, I figured a good week of cheap yoga classes would be a nice stop.

Holy Rishikesh is divided into four main centers, the downtown area, much like any Indian city, but set on the beautiful and at this point, clear Ganges river; Swarg Ashram, a collection of ashrams, restaurants and orange robed sardus smoking chillums on the bench lined streets; Laxman Julla, a tourist ghetto with guesthouses and restaurants, net cafes and a few more ashrams; and finally, where I chose to base, High Bank, a quiet group of lodgings located in the forest on the hill above town. The latter is less pretentious and new age than the rest of town, catering more to the backpackers who came to Rishikesh to see a beautiful river town instead of expanding their consciousness of reorganizing their soul. Like everywhere in town, they offered yoga.

Daan, Maartje, Nam and Mark arrived two days after I; all but Nam had never done yoga before. We planned to enter an Ashram for a few days for the experience but we found a nearby place offering free yoga and meditation, so we stayed the High Bank. My first two classes were one-on-one with a young yogi who led a very basic yoga course, mostly informal ashtanga, that though a good workout, did not teach me any new assana or techniques. The class I took with group was led by a creepy, long-haired, bearded baba with eyes that had the intensity of Charles Manson's; he scared us into pushing ourselves. He did teach me some new techniques, but he didn't make me comfortable, so we moved on. We settled on a free one-hour class led by a cute Brazilian hippie, bursting with positive spunk, accepting whatever we could do, but encouraging us to push ourselves. This had just the right atmosphere and I learned quite a bit. Sampling the courses showed me that yoga has different styles, assanas and variations on each. If the routine is balanced and stretches or aligns the body in the proper ways, it's effective. With this information, I felt much better about my personal routine and added more assanas so I could extend it.

The others, Nam excluded were quite mixed about yoga. Mark just thought it was silly, Daan and Martje, though enjoying it were quite shocked by the difficulty of it; both treated the experience with more curiosity than excitement and neither seemed too interested in continuing, which is a shame. Out of the many exorcises I've done, few encourage weight loss, maintain weight, boost flexibility, build strength and muscle that last and leaves me with a feeling of well-being, quite like yoga. In fact, someday I will get my 200 hours so I am able to work as an instructor. This is a good job for me; I can take it anywhere, it's something I enjoy, I can work with others, and stay fit. Plus, now I can claim to have studied yoga in India.

Amritsar

Located near the Pakistani border, in the heart of India's breadbasket, Amritsar has the distinction of being one of India's holiest cities. It is the home of the incredible Golden Temple, the most revered Sikh shrine in India. The Sikhs are a religious group, separated from Hinduism in the 15th century, it was started by a guru Nanakaman who's image dominates the walls of many places in Amritsar. He rejected the caste system, saying all people are equal, a theme shown by the free accommodation and food at Sikh temples. The Sikhs abstain from smoking, alcohol, and drugs (idealistically anyway) and can be recognized by their uncut beards, long hair bunched in a lump above their forehead and the iconic turban wrapping style. They've faced persecution over the years; the Golden Temple has been destroyed a few times. In 1984, a group of Sikhs, wanting a separate state, hoed in the Golden Temple. Not wanting to look weak to the primarily Hindu state, Prime Minister Indira Ghandi invaded the temple and crushed the uprising. The Sikhs were understandably bitter about their shrine being defaced and tensions rose higher as Indira was shot dead in her driveway by her trusted Sikh bodyguards. The situation has calmed but it remains a painful reminder of religious differences are a major source of conflict in the multicultural India.

Amritsar itself is a busy confusing town. Sikhs are the most predominant people, especially near the Golden Temple. I visited by myself (the others had yet to arrive) and walked the perimeter. The silence of the temple grounds are very relaxing in opposition to the town. Before entering, I had to wash my hands and feet then cover my head with a scarf. Thankfully the beauty of the temple outweighed the feeling of standing with wet feet on cold marble in the middle of winter. The temple itself is a sculpted gold box floating in a square tank of water. On two sides stand giant clock towers, the other two are flanked with an enormous gold dome and a collection of free dorms for pilgrims. The temple itself is fantastic, but standing the middle of the grand grounds is the most amazing. I didn't enter the temple itself saving that for my next day with the others. I did however stop for lunch in the massive multi-floor dining complex, which feeds tens of thousands of people daily, for free. This is a true show of how the Sikhs value equality so highly. A person walks in the door, is given a multicompartmental plate and a spoon, then is ushered upstairs. Lines of narrow carpets span the floors, where people sit down and wait to be served. Beturbaned men stood at the end of the aisles, offering prayers before serving out of giant buckets flavorful dal, the best I've had in India, thick vegetable curry, coconut rice porridge, a ladoo, and chapatis, offered into my two hands held together in a almost begging postrure, filled my plates. The food was fantastic, a surprising feat given the dizzying quantity produced. A middle-aged single mother professed her fast love for me in broken English as I ate and played with her child. When finished, I got up and dropped my dishes in the mass volunteer cleaning area, nearby masses sat on the floor, chopping onions and shelling garlic. It was beautiful to see such well-oiled, large-scale charity, not for the poor, not for the Sikhs, but everyone. I left a donation in the box and went to randomly wander the incomprehensible streets of Amritsar.

The Hindus have their own version of the golden Temple, though less grand. I was glad I saw this one first. Along the outside of their tanks were life-size panoramas of the lives of various deities, primarily Shiva. The Hindu temple that really struck me in Amritsar was the Mata Temple, a theological obstacle course passing idols, going through crawl spaces, trenches of water and fake caves. It was a fun presentation of Hindu ideas through a journey.

By far, the real highlight was the Pakistani border closing ceremony at Attari about 30km west of Amritsar. I don't know the origins of this oddity, but it's quite the spectacle. Guests are ushered to a group of bleachers like in a school gymnasium. Before the ceremony, Indians stand near the gate and dance energetically to Bollywood hits. At some point, the curiously dressed soldiers, in brick red uniforms adorned with large gold buttons and topped with hats that look like a large fan, growing out of their heads, like cocks' mohawk, clear the grounds for the ceremony. It starts with a call to chant by an MC-like character. He yells, “Hindustan!” and the crowd replies, “Zindabad!” This goes on for a few minutes until the mic is held in front of a soldier who yells “Ohhhhhhhhh!” until out of breath then he stands, lifts one foot high into the air like Monty Python's ministry of silly walks, straightens abruptly, turns and speed walks arms and legs in exaggerated motion all the way to the gate. On the Pakistani side, the same things is happening in almost a mirrored competition of pomp. It feels like two pep rallies in a single giant room, each side trying to be louder and more nationalistic than the other, flags waving in the crowds with great fervor. This process repeats for five consecutive soldiers until all are standing in a line at the gate. Finally, the soldiers from each side shakes hands politely, quickly and the flags are lowered with the sunset and the gate is closed. The party stops with this.

I returned home that second night and the group had just arrived, their more convenient route had 15 hours of delays. I, however, not wishing to linger, already had my ticket to Rishikesh. The rest, minus John would join me two days later. Before my train, I went to a great night market and had my best meal in India, mutton curry and tandoori chicken, specialties of Punjab. It was meat heavy since Rishikesh is a holy, vegetarian town.

My walk to the station went passed the bus stands and travel agencies, all trying to get me on their bus.

“I already have a train ticket,” I repeated again and again to any who approached me. Some were even lying. “No trains are leaving tonight.”

“I have a ticket.”

“Trains don't leave tonight.”

They did. The ease with which Indians can lie always astonishes me.

Bikaner

We all wanted to go to Amritsar, but due to some lack of confidence in the availability of transportation from Bikaner on the way, the group chose to transit through Delhi. As you can guess; I broke away from the group and took a night train to Bikaner.

It wasn't a particularly special city, but it broke up the trip a bit. A local told me to skip the fort; it is much like Jodpur's only not as nice. The man who stored my bag and organized my direct ticket to Amritsar touted me to an art gallery featuring a special local school of micro-painting. This surprisingly was a great stop. The teacher of the school held the record for the world's smallest painting, an intricate post card sized nature scene that had so much detail, a magnifying glass was essential. He painted a small bird paining on my thumb nail. It's nice to carry art with you.

The gallery was near a pleasant yet unremarkable palace. A large draw of the town is the Karni Mata Temple in Deshnok nearby. Simply known as the rat temple, it is believed to have the souls of all dead storytellers, brought back from the dead as rats to punish Yama, god of death for not restoring the life of a storyteller's son. Worshiped here, the rats are given offerings of milk and sweets. It wasn't like walking through a sea of rats like I expected. They would just be clustered around, picking off the pilgrim's offerings, some individual rats looking like tiny tailed footballs from their fortunate diet. I wasn't squeamish though, standing barefoot in the presence of thousands of rodents. I quite like rats myself. The plague just happened to give these intelligent, social creatures a bad name.

Camel Trekkin' with Mr. Desert

Nearly every visitor to Jaisalmer goes on a camel trek. Spending the night on a sand dune under the stars ranks as a top experience for most visitors to Rajahstan. It wasn't a part of my original plans, but the grop was game and I'd heard great reviews from fellow travelers.

We left at nine and took a jeep to a village 50km away and waited for the camels to arrive. Then over the hill trotted in six western people on camels, smiles across their faces. The excitement was building.

Without a single rest, a camel was allotted to each of us and we left. Somehow I was stuck with the smallest, ugliest camel with a bald patch on his head. His name was Raju, but I dubbed him Hugh Jackman. I ditched this name since the camel had nothing in common with the handsome Australian actor. John named his Lawrence as in Lawrence of Arabia. Somehow this led me to Alec Guinness and I changed Raju's name to Obi Wan. Obi Wan proved angry, stubborn, and far from noble. Obi Wan would not do for a name either I settled on Danny Devito and called him Louis Depalma occasionally, which was a perfect name. The owner forced me to call him Raju.

I was expecting the romantic experience of riding a camel on top of dunes, but we all walked in a straight line, going slower than my normal walking speed, led on a leash. When I was granted the reins, I was filled with glee, until I realized Raju didn't like me and just ignored my directions. Now, I've riden horses. I've raised dogs. I've managed a staff of ghetto-dwelling gang-bangers. I know how to stay strong in the face of insubordination, but I was no camel man. Before each break, Raju would split from the group, wander off and ignore my steering, eventually stopping, refusing to move. Raju also had the tendency to walk painfully slow, unless I constantly sang to him in Hindi.

The song was more of a call and response between me and the guide who never left my side. He'd begin, “Toro Haha Toro!” Then I'd repeat. “Torro Haha hum!” Repeat.

I deduced that toro meant fast and hum meant go. Haha remains a mystery to me. We went back and forth, combining these three words in various combinations, sometimes with new more complicated words which I uniformly managed to mispronounce to the giggling glee of the guides. The singing worked, with every phrase, Raju would pick up the pace, his rough demeanor fading with each chant. Whenever I bored of this game, Raju would return to his usual pokey pace. Suffice to say, I ended up chanting a lot.

We camped on a secluded sand dune, one of the many scattered around the mostly scrub desert. Mr. Desert arrived in the less romantic jeep to cook our dinner and tell his well rehearsed story of his rise to prominent tour organizer and minor celebrity over the fire.

In short, he was a simple villager and truck driver until he won the Mr. Desert competition, a beauty contest in 1988 featuring men in traditional Rajahstani clothes and facial hair. A friend, seeing the profitablity of his great look, encouraged him to transfer his career to tourism. Unlike most Indians, he felt that bombarding tourists at train stations was too pushy, preferring to let the customers come to him. His buisness was a disaster until one day, a passing photographer, fascinated by his face, took a series of photos, eventually selling some to a cigarette company. Overnight, he became the Rajahstani Marlbro man, and he had never smoked a cigarette in his life. Native Indians would stop in constantly to see the famous face of Jaisalmer Brand Tobacco. Slowly his business grew, solely by word of mouth until he became the most highly respected camel man in town. In the meantime, he won the Mr. Desert competition three more times. To help allow more even competition, the organizers dubbed him Mr. Desert for life, banned him from future competitions and put a one-year limit on future winners to prevent dynasties. He starred in various television commercials and had a bit part in a Bollywood film. He seems to love his status

It was interesting, but I expected a more magical story from such an iconic face. He offered us all a beer before taking his jeep home. We stayed up for hours later, sitting in our warm blankets, spotting shooting stars. As all had told, sleeping open air on a sand dune is a special experience.

The next day was like the first. We stopped at the Sam Sand Dunes, a popular destination in the area, then headed back. I chose to walk the rest of the way by foot. Raju and I were not friends and riding a camel is not particularly comfortable; I much prefer a horse.

It was an interesting experience. I don't reckon I like camels much. The food was mediocre, but filling, the staff, outside of Mr. Desert himself, was not going the extra millimeter. For the whole trip, I felt I was put on a tourist assembly line, given a carefully constructed, ununique venture on a well-trodden trail. John was sick the whole time and his negativity was definitely contagious. I am glad I took part, but it was by no means a highlight of India.